No Miracles in Hell
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Sam carries the cold inside him now. Dean's trying to pick up the pieces.


**No Miracles in Hell**

**A/N: Just a quick thing that's barely been looked over more than once, because if I do I'll decide I hate it and wont post. Thanks Cainchan for giving me the kick up the backside I needed to get this finished. I hope you like it :)**

**Hopefully the muse will kick into gear and there'll be more from me soon.**

**Set somewhere in the hopefully not too distant future after Sam gets his soul back. I miss him!**

XXX

Sam's found a loose thread on his jeans, Dean notes distractedly as his brother sets about trying to unravel them.

At least he's quiet. Dean's so tired, so bone-crushingly, mind-numbingly exhausted that he just can't handle any more screaming right now.

Sam's on the floor of Bobby's spare room, barefoot and cross-legged, back pressed hard against the wall – always, _always_, vigilant, waiting for the inevitable attack he expects, no matter how many times Dean's reassured him that he's safe. Of course, half the time Dean's pretty certain that Sam can't hear a thing he's saying, and the other half the time is still unclear so he supposes that it's only logical for Sam to expect to be jumped any minute.

Oh man, but he's just so tired. He hasn't slept for longer than 30 minutes in one stretch for days, because however long the calm lasts it's still just the eye of the storm and it's only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.

Dean draws his knees up to his chest and lets his head thud back against the wall, allowing his eyes to close for the briefest of moments. He's on the floor too because he may as well be and sitting on the bed might prove to be too comfortable. He can't sleep. Not now.

"You're gonna get better, Sammy," he says to the silence of the room, "That's a promise. Don't care how long it takes."

Sam shifts slightly. "It's so cold," he murmurs, his fingers still tugging at the thread. There's a small hole just above his knee now and his eyes don't move from it. "Never been so cold before."

Dean looks at the pool of sunlight sloshing through the window, feels the sticky heat of Summer, the way his clothes cling to him.

"'M so cold."

"I know, Sammy."

There's a real fire in the pit but Lucifer burns cold and Sam's soul returned with blue-tinged lips and skin so icy it hurt Dean's hands when he first reached for his brother. Sam's not cold now, not physically. If Dean touched him his skin would be warm with life but Sam still shivers constantly. He carries the cold inside of him now.

"Gonna get better, Sammy," Dean says again.

He wishes that he could believe it. Dean wont let himself work out how many years Sammy spent in the Cage, assuming time there is like time in regular Hell. He wont let himself think about how mightily pissed Lucifer must have been and all the ways He must have punished Sam for his rebellion. He wont let himself remember his own Hell. Because the more he thinks about it the further any chance of recovery seems.

Sam tugs on the thread until it snaps and with it snaps any semblance of calm. Sam's hands raise to cover his ears and his eyes squeeze closed.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" he pleads desperately, and Dean leaps up so he'll be ready to hold Sam down when he starts to hurt himself in his panic.

XXX

"They call him the Morning Star."

Dean looks up sharply but Sam's not looking at him, he's running his hands over the wall with his head cocked to the side, as if listening, his eyes glassy. He could be talking to himself, or the voices in his head. There's no indication that he has any idea that Dean's there.

Sam seems jittery, he can't stay still and he keeps startling at real or imaginary noises. Dean's leaning against the doorframe, Bobby beside him as he sips the strong coffee the older hunter brought him.

"I've heard Cas call him that," Dean replies, because Sam doesn't talk often – and Dean doesn't often like what he has to say – but he doesn't want to just ignore him.

Sam sweeps his hand over the wall in a wide arc and stands back for a moment as if contemplating something confusing.

"Speaking of His Holiness," Bobby says quietly, "Has he shown up lately? Got any idea that might help?"

Dean shakes his head. He hasn't seen Cas since a week ago when the feathery bastard finally turned up after almost an hour of desperate prayer and acquiesced to Dean's begging; "Please, just let him sleep. Just a few hours without nightmares. Christ, I can't listen to him scream anymore."

So Cas had placed his fingers on Sam's forehead and Dean had caught him as he crumpled. He got a glimpse of Bobby's meaningful glance as he lay his unconscious – and blessedly silent – brother on the bed, but had no time to argue as he straightened up and turned right into Castiel's knock out touch himself.

He throws Bobby a vague glare at the memory.

"He's so bright he burns my eyes out over and over forever," Sam says to the wall.

Dean gags on his coffee and has to swallow back the rush of sour vomit in the back of his throat.

"Christ," Bobby mutters under his breath as Dean grips the doorframe for support and forced himself to breathe through the nausea.

Sam grips his hair in clenched fists for a moment and Dean thinks this is where the screamings going to start again but instead Sam suddenly lunges forward and starts tearing at the wallpaper.

"Sam!"

The paper's already mutilated by the time Dean makes it to Sam's side and in one swoop Sam strips off a large sheet to reveal some kind of symbol apparently burnt into the wood.

Dean knows that Cas has done some 'home improvement' lately, at his request, so he assumes it's some kind of Enochian protection sigil.

Sam runs his fingers over the figure once before turning away and dropping down in the space between the wall and one of the beds, curling in on himself.

"That wont keep him out," he murmurs as he rocks back and forth.

Dean doesn't know if it does any good to assure Sam that Lucifer's still trapped in the Cage, but then, he doesn't know if anything he's doing does any good, so he does it anyway.

XXX

Dean swears he only closed his eyes for a second. It only felt like a second, just to give them a rest between breakdowns, but next thing he knows Bobby's face is right in front of his and the older hunter is shaking him awake vigourously.

"Dean! Where's Sam?"

It takes a split-second for Dean to understand what Bobby's saying, then he's all but shoving him aside in his haste to get to his feet, spinning in a circle as if Sam might somehow be hiding in the small sparsely furnished room.

"Shit," he mutters, and then, "Fuck!" because 'shit' doesn't seem to cover it, and he's dashing wildly through the house, throwing open doors and spinning in enough circles that he's dizzy as he tries to check every inch of the place for his wayward brother, hearing Bobby crashing along behind him.

He makes it to the kitchen before his brain switches on properly and he thinks to himself, what's the safest place in Bobby's house?

It might not be Sam's favourite room but, if Dean was a messed up kid who's just escaped Hell – and he does have some authority on the matter – he'd want to be sealed in by iron and devils traps and as many wards as possible.

Dean turns on his heel and nearly breaks his neck taking the stairs at high speed and only just manages to skid to a halt before he crashes face-first into the panic room door.

"Sam!"

He's sure it's going to be locked but it opens easily – maybe Sam doesn't think a simple lock is worth bothering with compared to ancient Enochian sigils – and sure enough, Sam's at the far side of the room, back turned and concentrating hard on painting something on the wall with his fingers.

Dean gives himself a moment to take a few deep breaths because his heads spinning like maybe he didn't breathe between finding his brother missing and now.

He blames the lack of oxygen for how long it takes him to wonder where Sam got paint. He looks around the walls that the red symbols, some he recognizes, some completely foreign, and it snaps into place with a jolt that has his heart trying to jam itself into his throat.

For a dispairing moment, as he swings Sam around to face him and pulls Sam's torn up arms out to get a look at the damage, Dean thinks that life will always be like this. He knew the risks before they got Sam's soul back, but he thought... Hell, it's laughable but he thought they must be owed a miracle. This isn't fair but when has anything been fair? Why should he have expected any more than what he got; the ravaged remains of a little brother who doesn't know living from Hell or Dean from a bar of soap?

His chest hurts suddenly from the enormity of it all and he wants to break down and scream along with Sammy. He wants... He wants Sam to call him a jerk and he wants 'bitch' to automatically roll off his tongue in response, he wants to turn his music up loud just to hear Sam moan about it, he wants to see Sam roll his eyes at something he's said and then launch into some long explanation of all the reasons why Dean is wrong.

He wants to hunt Wendigo and restless spirits and have Sammy's back and know that Sam has his. He wants to drive for hours and listen to Sam complain about the heat or the lack of leg room or the way Dean talks to the Impala like she's a real person. He wants to sit on the bonnet and drink beer in the middle of no where, watching the stars until Sam falls asleep on his shoulder and he has to wake him up so he can call him names because Sam's so funny when he's half-asleep and half-drunk and trying to think of a comeback.

God damn it, right now he'd be happy if Sam would just look _at_ him instead of _through_ him.

And then he realizes that while he's been crouching there – because at some point Sam's knees have given way and Dean's gone down with him – while he's been having a tantrum at the world in his head, Sam's been doing exactly that.

Dean's still holding Sam's arms out in front of him, distracted astonished by the amount of trauma Sam's managed to inflict with his own fingernails, and he's vaguely aware of Bobby buzzing around just beside him, trying to hold a couple of towels over the wounds, and saying... something, but that's all just background because Sam's looking at him, clenching his hands in Dean's leather jacket as words spill out in a rush and Sam's _talking to him_.

"Can't ever go back, Dean, please don't let them – Hundreds of years of – Wanna stay with you, Dean, please -"

Dean pulls Sam against him and clutches him tight as if he can keep Sam here with just his will alone, and he doesn't care that he's getting blood all over himself or that Bobby's right there bearing witness to this mother of all chick flick moments because the only thing he does care about is pressed against his chest, making a soggy mess of his t-shirt and clinging to Dean as if...

Dean's grip tightens enough that he thinks it must hurt but he's not letting go, because Sammy's clinging to him as if he really truly believes that Dean's going to save him.

He's still a long way from getting his little brother drunk on the hood of the Impala or joking around the way only he and Sam ever could. They're barely any closer to sanity than they were five minutes ago and that miracle he's waiting for is still fucking miles away in the distance.

But it's something to look forward to.

**END**


End file.
